In This World, I Am A Stranger
by Tubular Fox
Summary: She realizes, suddenly, that she doesn't really know anything about her parents at all.   Sequel to The ABCs of Child Rearing .


This is the sequel for my ABC series, about Arthur and Eames raising a daughter. A bit more serious in tone, and a bit of a long haul, but I prefer it to be read all at once. It flows better. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

She first sees it when she is five, hiding under her parents' bed even though she isn't allowed because James and Phillipa are trying to find her. If they _find_ her, they'll _win_.

And that, of course, is unacceptable.

There is no dust, because her Papa is very thorough at cleaning everything, even if it makes Daddy laugh at him. She likes it, though, because that means there will be nothing on her white overalls for Uncle Dom to fuss over while her parents are away on their _honeymoon._

When she taps it with her heel, she stops, surprised. She is already concealed under the hanging edge of Daddy's favorite blue bedspread, but she wants to be next to the wall so she's even harder to see. She twists her head around to see what's beaten her to it, and is delighted to find that it is not only shiny, but it looks like she can open it.

Her tiny fingers latch onto the handle, pulling the silver case closer to her so she can tug at the split, trying to get her small fingers into the crevice. Then she pouts, because it must be locked. Vainly, she turns it over and pokes at it, running her fingers over the bumps on the sides, hoping that the box will magically open.

It doesn't.

Losing interest, she pushes it back into the corner and promptly forgets about it, because Phillipa's feet are now visible underneath the bottom of the coverlet.

**-oooxooo-**

Six years old, she watches her parents argue from behind the kitchen doorway, even though they sent her to bed hours ago. She can't hear what they're saying—not exactly—but she can tell from Papa's posture and from Daddy's face that this time it's serious.

This time, something is really wrong.

_Papa, Daddy, it's okay. Things are okay_, she wants to say, wants to step into the kitchen and tug on the crisp pleat of Papa's slacks, wants to know, wants to _know_ why they're fighting, and why Daddy looks so sad, and what it is that Papa is tucking into the back of his waistband.

But she can't see it before the fabric of his jacket covers it.

And then Daddy leans in to press his forehead against Papa's like he does to comfort her after her nightmares, and Papa puts his hand onto Daddy's cheek and sighs, trying to smile.

And this isn't the first time this has happened.

And she wants to know why Papa says, _It'll be all right,_ and why Daddy just closes his eyes and says, _Be careful, love._

**-oooxooo-**

Uncle Yusuf visits from Mombasa for Christmastime when she is eight. Auntie Ariadne and Uncle Saito had already arrived a few days earlier, and Uncle Dom and her cousins have been here for nearly a week already.

The house has never been so lively.

The tree is set up, hot chocolate and tea are served, and she, James, and Phillipa are all filmed as they hang their stockings from the mantelpiece. Daddy keeps trying to get Papa to stand under the mistletoe, but Papa hasn't stopped moving long enough to be captured.

Instead, he winds his way through all the guests, bringing refreshments where they are needed, and thoroughly avoids being under the kitchen doorframe at the same time that Daddy is. She thinks it is because he is shy, and Auntie Ariadne and Uncle Yusuf will laugh if he is caught.

After the story is read and the cookies and milk left out, she asks Papa if she can stay up just a little longer so she can listen to Uncle Yusuf and Uncle Saito talk about new _somnacin_ compounds (even though she doesn't know what that is), and so she can see Auntie Ari finish her drawing of the folding city.

A strange look passes over his face, and Papa says no.

Because Santa is coming.

**-oooxooo-**

She sees it again when she is ten, searching for her birthday presents in the _Forbidden Closet_ that's in Papa and Daddy's room. There are, sadly, no colorfully wrapped boxes tucked away behind pinstripes and paisley, but there is a slim, silver suitcase at the very back where no one will ever find it.

She pulls it out, wondering, and turns it over and over, looking for a label, or an address tag that would mark it as Papa's work case, the one that holds the papers from the old building designs.

But there is no label, there are no dates laid out in clean black ink like on the others she's seen.

There are, however, two grooves by the handle, what she guesses to be a lock holding the case shut, and a dent in the side that looks a lot like a bullet hole (this she knows from the cops shows she's watched at Jill's house, even though her parents wouldn't allow it—if they _knew_).

And she wonders, wonders, and wants to know why there is a bullet hole in something her parents own.

**-oooxooo-**

Papa paces in the living room, nervously. She can tell he is nervous not because of the pacing, but because the fingers on his left hand won't stay still. They flick continuously at his hip in an agitated pattern, like he's unconsciously searching for something that is no longer there.

_Have you dropped something, Papa?_ she asks, because she can't think of anything else that could have happened.

_No, I haven't dropped anything_, he replies back with a smile, and at eleven she is quite old enough to know that it is strained, and forced, and he is not happy.

_Qu'est-ce que c'est, Papa?_ she says softly, looking up at him out of the big blue eyes that have won her many answers in their time. _What's the matter?_ But this time Papa just shakes his head and continues to pace, fingers resting lightly over the left side of his belt like it's wrong, it's wrong, it's _empty._

When the door opens, his hand drops, and she watches him jog over to Daddy. The both of them are outlined against the bright summer sun streaming in, dark against the blinding blue sky outside.

And Papa is burying his face in Daddy's neck, muttering _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

And Daddy is wrapping him in his arms and laying his cheek against Papa's head, saying _See? I'm fine. Mission accomplished_.

And this is also not the first time _this_ has happened, but this is the time she finally understands what's going on. This is the time she pieces it together. This is the time she _knows._

Her parents are spies.

**-oooxooo-**

_May I speak to Mr. Morsten? _the man on the other end of the line asks, and she sighs and shakes her head, even though she knows he can't see her.

_No one by that name lives here_, she answers, like always. The ever mysterious Mr. Morsten has been the recipient of calls in the Eames-DeLacey house for many months now. She used to wonder if she should tell her parents, but she is thirteen and neither Papa nor Dad was ever a Morsten, so everything is under control.

Besides, she has homework waiting at the kitchen table that Papa insists has to be done before he gets home from the PTA meeting, and that is in less than fifteen minutes, and she's not even halfway done.

**-oooxooo-**

Fifteen years old, she thinks she should be able to rip the damn case open already. She's just so _curious._ What's in it? Why is it in a different place every time she finds it? If the silver briefcase can hear her, it doesn't answer.

She wonders if it would, if it could.

She sighs, and then wonders why she _doesn't_ just break it. The suspense is _killing_ her—she wants to know why it's so _heavy,_ why it's now living behind the washing machine, why she's subconsciously afraid to ask her parents about it.

So she turns it over and over and over and over in her hands until watching the dent flash by makes her dizzy, and then puts it back behind the washing machine when she hears the smart click of Papa's heels as he comes down the hall to take the laundry out of the dryer.

**-oooxooo-**

It is only after her third date with Jared and a two camera cards loaded with pictures that she realizes something that has never seemed strange to her until now: There are no pictures of her parents in the house from before they adopted her.

_None._

It seems odd. She has taken so many pictures of her and Jared at cafés, at movies, at restaurants, outside…and Dad is the romantic type. It's weird, there being no pictures of them—together or _not_—in the house. All of her friends' parents have albums and weddings and dates and wide smiles behind glass on the wall, but not _her_ parents.

Instead, there are frames of them and her, of only her, but none of only them except from the last sixteen years. She knows this, because Papa always meticulously dates the back of the photos in marker.

But when she asks, all Papa does is laugh quietly to himself and say, _He's only been photogenic these past sixteen years._

And it is not an answer, but she knows she'll never get a better one.

**-oooxooo-**

At seventeen, she finds it—not the silver case in a different location, but an envelope that is stained at the corners with age and wrinkled like it's been hidden away too quickly for far too long.

Of course, she is her fathers' daughter, so she opens it.

Inside are a bunch of photographs—some printed from a computer or one of those photo booths at the convenience store, others Polaroids, but all of them of her parents. They lean against railings, or drink coffee, or rub sleep out of their eyes, or shove at each other, or laugh and laugh and laugh.

And in the background of each picture is a closed, silver briefcase.

It's on the porch table, or the bed, or the hotel kitchenette counter, or barely sticking out from underneath the motel bedspread. Sometimes it's in one of her fathers' hands, or laps, but it is always there.

And they look so _young._

She swears—in that one, or this one, or the one on the bottom—that Papa can't be any more than 20. Dad, then, can't be more than 24, and they glare at each other over their tightly clasped hands and interlaced fingers.

It's then that she starts to wonder if maybe her parents are in witness protection, or something. Maybe one of them was a Morsten. There are no dates on the backs of these pictures; only places, and names like _Mombasa, Kenya—Atten_ and _Salvador, Brazil—Araceli_ and _Vientiane, Loas—Selatan_.

All of these places she can remember from her fathers' postcards, from the adventures they said they went on when they were younger. She can hear Dad's voice now: _Your Papa might be able to explain that one better than I can. I was mostly unconscious for that trip._ And then Papa's smooth, _It was food poisoning._

She wants to know how much of that is the truth.

But more than ever, she wants to know what is in that case. The corner of one blurry photo reveals the briefest slice of it—open, but with no clues as to its contents. At least she knows it opens now, just like she knows her parents will never give her a straight answer if she asks.

Her Google search of 'silver briefcase' gives her nothing, either.

**-oooxooo-**

_Non_, she hears Papa laugh from behind her. _I think you're getting that wrong._

_Am I?_ she asks, straightening a little to get a better view of the model she's building for forensics class. It's been giving her trouble for weeks, and honestly, she'll welcome any help she can get.

_Yes, if you want your John Doe to die like that,_ Papa smiles, setting down his coffee mug and rolling up his sleeves to avoid staining their pristine white with her fake blood, leaning over her scene with a critical eye.

_Is it a professional hit, then, love?_ Dad asks from the doorway, grinning. _You'd know_. He steps in to look as well. _Four team members, correct?_

And she doesn't have time to wonder about that because Papa is talking about trajectory and spatter, and floor plans; things like: _The mark would have come from this direction_ and Dad is saying, _Put your assassins here to cover your exits,_ and she doesn't even have time to wonder how her parents knew it was a professional hit by a team of four when she'd never even told them.

**-oooxooo-**

She manages to forget about the pictures and the case and the fact that she knows nothing about her parents' lives before 2033 when the letter comes.

_I got in, I got in, I got IN! _she cries as she runs back into the house, accidentally dropping the rest of the mail as she pegs up the driveway, frantically waving the MIT acceptance letter.

And Papa hugs her, and Dad ruffles her hair, and from then on her life is a mad swirl of packing and excitement and goodbyes, until she is waving her parents off from the curb of her new home and trying not to bawl embarrassingly.

Four hours from her parents feels like forever.

But she settles in. She _loves_ her classes, especially her Technology class and her Psych class. Her Psych professor, Mr. Samuel, is an infinitely interesting man. He seems to know a lot about everything, but his favorite thing to talk about is dreams—and not in the Freudian way. They talk about shared dreaming, and mind-crime, and so many _impossible_ things.

It's great, because the subconscious has always fascinated her.

He stops her one day, at the end of class when she's about to get some lunch. _Miss Eames-DeLacey_, he says, and she pauses.

_Yes?_

_Is one of your fathers, by chance, named Arthur?_

She blinks, confused, and then says, _Yes._ He smiles, and pushes up his glasses, and nods.

_Say hello to them for me, would you? It's been a while._

**-ooo-**

And then, in Tech, they're talking about a thing called the PASIV, and their professor brings out a model on loan from the military for them to look at. It's sleek, thin, compact; able to be stored quite easily in a two-inch case. He says that this isn't even the newest model; that they're working on one that can fold up neatly into a _camera case._

And she is completely amazed, completely thrown.

But that is nothing compared to the shock that hits her near the end of class, as the PASIV's leather case is being clicked and locked shut, and her professor starts talking about the first few models, the ones that came in

Shiny.

Silver.

Cases.

**-oooxooo-**

It's so hard to take in. Her parents are—are…_criminals._ They broke into other peoples' minds and stole whatever they wanted. She's talked with Mr. Samuel—because he's one _too?_ She can hardly believe it—and now knows that Papa can build entire worlds in seconds (he is always so detailed…), and Dad can change his face (she's seen him do so many impressions, but she'd never thought—), and _she never knew._

But, somehow, it all makes sense now.

She wonders how long she should hide the fact that she's known about the PASIV—or, at least, of its physical existence—since she was five, because she doesn't want to shock her parents more than she already is. Papa, at least, looks more nervous than she's ever seen him.

So, instead of asking the millions of questions she wants to, she asks only one: _Do you have your own PASIV?_

And of course she already knows the answer to that. But she's waiting to see if her parents—her brilliant, brilliant parents—will pick up on what she _really_ means.

And they do, of course.

Dad's face crinkles into a smile, and Papa's eyes shine, and they stand and ask her how she'd like to build a world of paradoxes.

And what else can she say?

**-oooxooo-**

_—Chrysler building in 1930. But then it was surpassed as tallest by the Empire State Building only eleven months later. Can you imagine how revolutionary the building techniques must have been to make a building that tall, back then?_

She looks over to see Papa, walking next to her up the stairs and pointing out all of the interesting points of architecture of a building that she is slowly coming to realize does not look a thing like the Empire State Building.

_Papa,_ she says, stopping to look around, _where are we?_

_Where indeed?_ he chuckles, and motions for her to keep walking with him, launching into another explanation of extremely fascinating architectural marvels. She only notices that the scenery never seems to be changing after it feels like they've been walking forever.

_Papa…_ she begins, but he is already holding a hand out to stop her from walking. She looks up at him. _Why—how are we going in circles?_ When she looks, she can only see stairs leading them up. Certainly they must have least reached another floor by now?

_Look down,_ Papa says, and she does. Below them is a frighteningly large drop, and she is suddenly very glad that Papa stopped her from going over the edge. _They're called the Penrose Steps,_ he says, and there is a secret smile in his eyes. _A paradox._

_Cool,_ she breathes. He lets them down, and then they are walking down a long, high-windowed hallway. _Are we…is this a dream?_ she asks, because that is the only possible explanation for what's happening.

The people walking around them seem to slow, and their heads tilt as their eyes follow them down the corridor.

_Why are they staring at us?_

_Because you're starting to realize that this isn't your dream._

It doesn't seem to be freaking Papa out, but it's certainly beginning to unnerve her as the people stop walking, all of them turning to fix their eyes on her and her father.

_Your subconscious is very perceptive_, he says calmly. _You'd be very easy to train against extraction._

_Did you used to do that?_ She wants to distract herself from the people who are now following them. Her eyes catch on a blonde woman walking toward them. She is especially beautiful, but that is not why.

It is because the woman isn't staring.

Just as she is about to walk past the two of them, Papa's hand shoots out to catch her wrist, tugging her into a smooth spin. The woman laughs, and leans in to kiss Papa's cheek.

_Not even going to say hello?_ Papa smiles, and that's when she realizes that the woman is Dad.

_Oh, ruin my fun why don't you,_ comes the familiar tease, and suddenly the woman _is_ her father, tastefully dressed in a light gray suit, like the one Papa gave him last year for Christmas.

_Gladly,_ Papa says back, and she is so glad to see that they are still so in love.

_What else can we do?_ she asks, looking around at the high glass ceilings, the delicate staircases, the endless hallways. Then she hears her fathers laugh.

_What else?_ Dad asks, smiling. _Darling, if you would._

And Papa smiles, too, and suddenly the world explodes around them. She squeezes her eyes shut, afraid for a second, and when she opens them again, she is standing on a cliff with her parents.

However, the cliff is twisted, like the loops of a roller coaster, and they are standing upside down at the end with the ocean roaring above them and the sky flashing below. The sun is setting, turning the sea below them into molten gold as the sky sews itself a cape of pink and purple velvet, glittered with impossibly bright stars.

And she can't breathe.

_Well, James, how's my imagination?_ she dimly hears Papa ask, over the sound of her own heartbeat straining at the beauty of it. Dad laughs and wraps an arm around Papa's waist, laying their heads together.

_Getting better all the time, Arty._

She is startled when the music suddenly begins to play.

_Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien…_

Papa sings softly along under his breath, and she recognizes it as the song he would always play while he was designing his buildings at the kitchen table, one hand rolling a red die in his palm

_Just in time,_ Dad says as the seagulls below fold their wings to fall up at them, eyes and beaks sharp.

_James,_ Papa says, _would you keep her safe until—_

But Dad says, _No, she's going to have to learn sometime. What did you have planned?_

And she wants to ask, _What do you mean? What am I going to have to learn?_ But Papa is already taking her hand, his other laced with Dad's and he's pulling them to the edge.

And then he jumps, and they're falling, falling down into the stars and clouds and sky.

**-oooxooo-**

She opens her eyes, no longer falling, but laying on the couch in the living room. Papa and Dad are already removing their IVs, fingers deftly and efficiently sliding the needles out, retracting the PVC tubing back into the neat coils.

It is all she can do to keep breathing.

_Have we broken her? Hannah?_ Dad asks worriedly, leaning over to inspect her color, only to wind up almost getting hit in the face when she jerks up into a sitting position.

_That was_ amazing! she practically shrieks. _Can we go in again? S'il te plait?_

And both of her parents look so surprised that she just has to laugh. And she does, laughing and laughing, until Papa is rubbing her back and breathing _shh, shh,_ and Dad is getting up to fetch her a glass of water.

_Are you all right, now?_ Dad asks when she's calmed a little, but she's shaking, she's shaking and she's not sure she can stop because _what the hell was all that,_ and her parents are treating this like it happens everyday.

And then she remembers that for them, for a long time, it _did._

_mean it, though_, she says when the shaking has finally stopped, and she can drink the water without spilling it all down her shirt. _I want to go back. Can we?_

And her parents look at each other, talking silently, and it's like she's a kid again. She's watching her parents say things that she doesn't understand or seeing the fabric of suit jackets fall to conceal something in the back of Papa's waistband or waiting in the hallway while Papa and Dad are in the bathroom, hearing Papa say things like, _You need to be more careful, James, we're not as young as we used to be,_ and Dad would say, _I'm always careful, Arty. We're not that old. It's just a scratch._

Finally, they seem to come to a decision, and she can already tell from the spark in Papa's eyes and the twitching smile at the corners of Dad's mouth that the answer is _yes._

**-oooxooo-**

_I know this place,_ she says. _I recognize it._

In the distance, the grand castle is under attack, the knights valiantly fighting off the blue and pink dragon that swoops down again and again. The grass springs under her feet, and the violet polka dot flowers sway in the breeze and she _knows this place._

_We used to tell you bedtime stories about it,_ Dad says, looking noble in his blue and gold livery. Papa stands a little ways off, not at all amused by the kingly outfit Dad has dressed him for this dream. _This is the Kingdom of Lapin._

And Hannah giggles like she did when she was five and her parents would sit at the end of the bed and weave tales of the far off kingdom where Lucy Lapin ruled as the wise and fair princess, her life saved from the horrible dragon by the noble Prince Penrose. They would rule together from the beautiful and mighty Penrose Palace.

She can see it now, off in the distance; the castle with the stairs that never end. She loved thinking about it as a little girl, imagining getting lost in the endless white stone corridors Papa would design (though it wasn't he that named the castle, it was Dad. She finally understands the look and the nudge Papa gave him for that), and she can't believe that she's actually _here._

_I never want to leave_, she sighs, and Papa's gaze snaps over to her, and his voice is kind but firm.

_Never think that. Reality is always the best you can wish for. Dreams may let you build impossible things, but never lose sight of what you have waiting for you. Like Jared,_ he says, and she smiles.

_I won't, Papa. I promise._

And he seems satisfied with that.

**-oooxooo-**

The first world she builds is spectacular. It's a small café, like the one she and Jared had their first date in before the movie (not the same one, though, Dad had warned her), and the lighting is low and the music is soft and it feels _perfect._

_She's got your eye for detail,_ Dad says to Papa as he wonderingly inspects the fine curling vines on the wallpaper, the subtle beauty of the woodwork.

_She's got your feel for atmosphere,_ Papa says back as he closes his eyes and smiles, enjoying the light clink of glasses, the low mumble of talk all around them. His projections are dressed semi-formally, all stunning. She wonders if he really knows them, or if he always dreams of gorgeous people.

_This is amazing,_ Dad says to her. _You could have made a killing as an extractor._

_I wouldn't want to, _she confesses, pulling up a chair at the polished counter. _I just want to build._

_You were like that, too_, Dad says nostalgically to Papa, running his fingers over his husband's silvering temples, smoothing his hair behind his ear again.

_I was,_ Papa concedes, and he winks at her before continuing. _But luckily I smartened up. Otherwise I never would have met you._

_Luckily indeed, then, because I don't know what I would have done without you all these years._

_Died, a long time ago. I wouldn't have been there in Rio to watch your back._

_True, true. That, darling, is a rather frightening prospect._

And she listens to them, and curls the world around and around until it is something completely new, and hopes that later her parents will tell her of all their _real _adventures.

**-oooxooo-**

_Do you ever miss it?_ she asks, one day, sitting at the kitchen table while Papa chops the carrots into neat, even sections faster than her eyes can follow.

_Miss what?_ He looks up, knife pausing its steady rhythm as he blinks curiously at her.

_Everything. Your life before you had me._

He smiles gently, like she is a young again and waiting for him to punish her for staining her dress, not a twenty-three year old asking a question that weighs heavily on her mind.

_Of course I do_, he says, and for a moment her heart falls. But he isn't done. _I miss it like you miss high school. It was adventure, with the people I loved. But everyone grows up sometime. And you want to know a real adventure? Raising a kid!_

He laughs, and she is quite glad to join in.

_Do you mean it, Papa?_ she asks quietly, and he leaves the counter to pull her close.

_You know I do,_ he says, burying his face in her hair. _I loved it, but I love _you_ more. And besides, your Dad and I are much too old now for all that excitement._

**-oooxooo-**

She fancies she can almost picture it; the way her parents find out that she is gone.

Papa will pick Dad up from where he teaches painting on his way back from the architectural firm he consults for. They'll bicker a bit, and then settle into contented silence as Dad places his hand lightly on Papa's knee.

And Papa will smile.

They'll get home, and Dad will have his keys out faster than Papa, never mind the fact that Papa _already has his out_ from driving. Dad will unlock the door, but step aside, hold it open, and sweep his arm grandly to usher Papa in first. And Papa will roll his eyes, but he will humor Dad anyway.

Their coats will come off, and Papa will hang them up while Dad goes to put his art supplies away, carrying Papa's briefcase into the other room even though Papa says he'll get it in a minute.

Then Papa will check the answering machine for new messages.

She knows this is probably how it will happen, because she's seen them do this countless times before. Maybe they'll go out for dinner first, or maybe they'll see a movie or a play at the theatre before going home, but when they do go home they will do what they always do. The small details vary, of course, but the general pattern is usually the same.

She doesn't know what they'll do next, after Papa checks the answering machine, because they've never gotten a call saying that their daughter has been kidnapped, and there's no ransom because no matter what is done, she'll die anyway.

She wishes she knew what they do next, because she's been here for two days.

Her captors are getting impatient, with the one in charge throwing around complaints like,_It's taking too long_ and _Where are they? _and _It's about time to cut my losses. _He paces around in twitchy frustration, clicking the safety of his gun on and off.

The other six just watch him silently.

And she wonders how Jared is. Not too worried, she hopes, but she's been gone for at least forty-eight hours. Maybe, she thinks, he's filed a police report. Maybe Dad and Papa aren't here because the police are interviewing them. Or have them in custody.

Her hear nearly stops at that thought, and she tries to convince herself that her parents aren't stupid enough to settle down in a state where they're wanted; of _course_ they're not. But if they're wanted in a _different_ state—

Twitchy Gunman finally stops pacing and comes to a rest standing next to her.

_I've given them long enough to save you_, he says, as if he's trying to explain himself to her. Like he's trying to justify his actions. _It's their own fault they aren't here. A pity, because I wanted them to see you die. After what they _did_ to my _mother—

He levels the gun at her head, and she closes her eyes and tightens her fist around the brightly painted jack in her hand, the deformed one that she found at school as a child. It is bright red and has only three rounded tips, instead of four, and one of its pointed ends is worn down as if by a nail file.

Her fathers had laughed when she'd told them what it was (vaguely, of course. Totems are private) because it followed their tradition of games.

_Poker, dice, and jacks_, she had laughed. _Aren't we quite the family._

All of its irregularities assured her, horrifyingly, that this was it. This was reality. One shot, and she will never see Jared again. Never see her parents, or Uncle Dom, or Auntie Ari, Uncle Yusuf, or Uncle Saito. No Phillipa, no James. Just one shot.

_Goodbye,_ she whispers, but she is not sure to whom. To everyone, she supposes, if they can hear her.

The gunshot shatters the silence of the warehouse.

**-ooo-**

The shock of it snaps her eyes open as the lead gunman shrieks and then falls silent, eyes blank as his knees fold and he collapses onto the ground, dead. All around her the air explodes with the sound of gunfire. The six men are on their feet now, ducking behind cover or being shot down.

The doors are open now, and she can almost make out her rescuers. There are four of them on the ground floor, and she catches a flash of movement by the second floor's railing.

After an eternity that leaves her ears ringing, the firing stops.

_Is she all right? Hannah? Hannah!_

And that is definitely her Papa's voice, echoing down for the second floor where he is already holstering his gun at his left hip and taking the stairs down two at a time.

_She's all right, she's all right. Hannah, pet, you are all right, aren't you?_

And Dad sounds worried, maybe, if she's hearing him right. Her ears are still feeling odd, but he's untying her hands and rubbing her wrists to restore circulation, and she's beginning to catch up.

_Dad? Papa?_ She isn't as confused as she sounds, but she feels Dad's hands tighten gently around hers, and Papa is there, pulling them both close.

_Yes, we're here. Everyone else, too,_ he says, not letting go to give her the opportunity to see.

_Arthur, we need to go. Saito took care of the ones that ran, but all the noise has doubtlessly attracted someone's attention. Come on._

Uncle Dom is always practical.

Dad and Papa escort her to the car, where Uncle Saito is waiting. Uncle Yusuf and Auntie Ariadne fall in to protect her from all sides until she is safely in the car and they are driving away. It is only then that she begins to shake.

_I'm sorry_, Papa says. _I'm sorry we took so long to get to you._

And she can already tell what's going to come next, because she knows her Papa.

_It isn't your fault_, she says. _I don't blame you._

He sighs and pulls her close in her seat, laying his cheek on the top of her head. Dad takes her hand from the other side.

_It actually_ is _our fault,_ Dad says quietly. _Because this never would have happened if we hadn't taken that job._

She pulls away from both of her parents, staring at them incredulously. _I can't believe you're actually blaming yourselves for something you did when I wasn't even_ born. _I thought you guys had better sense!_

Auntie Ariadne snorts, trying to choke back her laughter. Uncle Yusuf doesn't even bother.

_I mean it!_ she says, pulling her parents close. _I'm twenty-four, I'm all right, and it's_ not your fault. _All that matters is that you_ found _me._

Papa sighs, looking unconvinced, but Dad just wraps his arms around her.

_It will never happen again._

**-oooxooo-**

Surprisingly, it is Jared who tells them, not her. She is too busy talking and talking with Phillipa and Auntie Ariadne (and her parents will later be upset that they knew _first_). He comes over, face stretched into an impossibly wide smile and says six words that change everything forever.

_I'm going to be a dad._

_Pardon_? Dad blinks, and she's just noticed that her parents have come in.

_You're_— Papa starts, but he doesn't get far.

_I'm pregnant!_ she yells excitedly, leaving Phil and Auntie Ari to run over to her parents. _I'm going to have a baby! Jared and I are going to have a_ baby!

_Congratulations!_ Dad shouts, lifting her up and spinning her around. _That's fan_tastic!

Papa is still just staring.

_…Papa? Es-tu d'accord? Are you okay? _She steps over to him when Dad has put her down, worried she's broken him.

_I—oui. Je suis— _He pauses, like he's not sure what he's going to say. Then he lets out a breath of air and smiles. _Congratulations, honey. Oh God, you're going to have a baby._

_Dad, help him_, she say with a grin. _He looks like he's going to fall over._

_Darling, it's all right. Come on, now_, Dad says, wrapping an arm around his husband's waist. Then he sighs wistfully. _I remember when we were waiting for them to give us you, Hannah._

_I do, too, _Papa mutters. _It wasn't that long ago. How can you possibly be old enough to be having children of your own?_

_Papa_, she says, gently taking his wrist so he won't slip his hand into his pocket where she knows his die is waiting. _Papa, I'm twenty-eight. That's plenty old enough to be having children._

And Dad laughs. _She's got you there, Arty._

Papa still looks a little lost, but she can forgive him. She knows he's only just finished reorganizing the family photo albums, and that much nostalgia never agrees with anyone.

_How will you paint the nursery?_ Auntie Ariadne asks, and Papa finally snaps out of his daze.

_Yes, how will you? Do you know if it's a boy or a girl?_

_No,_ she says. _We didn't want to know._

_Neutral, then,_ says Dad, and she smiles.

_Actually, I was thinking about painting it with dragons and knights and castles with stairs that never end._

**-oooxooo-**

When she is three months pregnant, she tells Jared that she knows what she wants to do.

_What?_ he asks, and she takes his hand and smiles.

She asks her fathers for the envelope of pictures, the ones of them and their life before her. To their credit, they don't ask her how she knows about it. Instead, they just hand it to her, smiling.

For her baby shower gift, they pay the expenses of her and Jared's trip around the world to ten places she wants to visit from her parents' old life. They go to Paris, to Mombasa, to Laos and Brazil and Monaco. They go to China and Egypt, Milan and Timbuktu.

They end in Germany, where her parents met.

In each city, she opens the PASIV her parents have let her borrow (she wants to use theirs, even though they say she can get her own, and probably quite easily) and dreams a dream with Jared.

In each city, she calls her parents and asks them about the adventures they had, what they did, what they saw and who they met. She wants to be able to tell her child, when he or she is old enough to understand, all about his grandparents and the lives they lived.

And she and Jared will be able to tell of their own journeys, too.

**-oooxooo-**

Every life is full of loss. Time passes relentlessly, and people age and grow and live, and eventually, they leave you.

They say Uncle Saito's last words were, "I am no longer thinking about elephants."

They say Uncle Cobb is finally with Aunt Mal, the lovely woman who she never got to meet.

Papa was not sickly in the end of his life. He was just as healthy as he was when he chased her down the house's long, polished-wood hallways and lamented the sad death of her now jelly-stained overalls—or so he said. But he was tired. When he was 85, he closed his eyes and curled into Dad's side, going to find his friends and family and build a world of eternal paradoxes.

Six months later, Dad's smile falters just a little as he looks at photographs of the two of them, now displayed around the house. _Darling_, he says, softly, _I'm 89. I was never supposed to live longer than you._ He has told her many times that he doesn't know what to do with himself now that Papa is gone and there is no one to tease. When he falls asleep forever, the glass of the picture frame in his hand shines lightly in the dark

**-oooxooo-**

_Maman,_ a voice asks from the doorway. _Can I ask you something?_

She looks up from where she is chopping carrots into neat little sections faster than his eyes can follow. Jared is not home; school hasn't gotten out yet, and the day of a middle school science teacher is long.

_Yes, Zeke? What is it?_

Twenty-seven years old, Zeke steps into the kitchen, and in one hand is a dented silver briefcase.

_What is this?_

She smiles at him, setting her knife aside and wiping her hands on her apron. _It belonged to your grandparents._

He blinks and sets it on the table. _Pépé and Grandpa's? But what_ is _it?_

And she wishes, wishes they were here to show him like they showed her. But they are not, and in their memory, it is time to introduce Ezekiel to this most central part of their lives.

So she walks over to it and unlocks it, presses in the catches that hold it closed.

_It's called a PASIV._

_A PASIV? Really?_ he asks, eyes wide. _But it's so…_

_Big?_ She laughs. _I know it's not the camera case ones you're learning about. No, this one is your grandparents', from sixty-five years ago._

It opens smoothly, revealing shining metal settings and eight gleaming vials of somnacin, ready to take people as far away as their imaginations can carry them. She can still hear Dad's laughter as she built carnivals and fantasy worlds, can still hear Papa's patient voice telling her how to maintain it, how to repair it, what to look out for.

Zeke's eyes are wide when they turn to her.

_Is it—can it still be used? I mean—_ He pauses, as if unsure.

And she smiles to herself and closes it again, picking it up and gesturing into the living room.

_How would you like to build a world of paradoxes?_

So, there you have it. I liked writing it, a lot. I hope you liked reading it!

A clarification, in case I left things unclear: When Arthur's tapping at his belt, waiting for Eames, he's looking for his gun.

Now, on to _**NEWS**_: My zombie apocalypse fic is DONE. It stands, a true beast, at 136 pages long. Understandably, it will take a while to beta. I'll be working on that for the next _long_ while. But also, **I'm announcing an Inception hiatus until Christmas** (not that I really write all that much, but still...) because I have a 20 page story to write for my best friend for Christmas and I have no idea where it's going and I haven't written ANYTHING (sorry, Cherry!).

But anyway, just thought I'd let you know.

So, I hope you enjoyed the story, and don't want to hit me like my sister did after she read the little death part... Please review!


End file.
